


Drowning - Eight's Story

by aquabluejay



Series: Drowning [2]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who: Eighth Doctor Adventures - Various Authors
Genre: Doctor Whump, Drowning, Eighth Doctor Adventures, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-28 11:08:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/307244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquabluejay/pseuds/aquabluejay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor and Fitz are on a mission from UNIT when when the Doctor goes overboard, literally. Worse, the the Doctor has a nasty encounter with some falling cargo immediately before being introduced to the stormy Atlantic. He needs rescuing - and Fitz can't swim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drowning - Eight's Story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [funtimevash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/funtimevash/gifts).



> Dedicated to Funtimevash over on Live Journal for her answering my questions about Fitz and the EDA’s, and just generally being courteous, knowledgeable and immeasurably helpful.
> 
> This is the second of three stories I'm writing following this theme.  
> I wanted to do something hurt/comfort-y along these lines, when I realized that I didn't actually know if the Doctor could swim or not. I put my head together with the fans on Death by Aspirin's forum, and none of us could come up with a conclusive answer, so here we are. In the "Altered Vistas" comics the Fifth Doctor cannot swim and almost drowns... I'm running with that despite its questionable canonicity. In the EDA's Eight can swim, so I'm going to assume he learned at some point, possibly due to the events of the previous story (Drowning – Five’s Story).

Eight’s Story

They were on a cargo ship, massive, with huge crates of corrugated steel filling the hold and stacked like child’s bricks, looming over you as you walked past. The crates were chained down with heavy chains anchored firmly on the deck to prevent them shifting during rough seas. It wouldn’t do to have the cargo slip away over the side and be lost in the ocean, and God forbid what would happen if one of them should hit one of the crew. It was perhaps not the most impressive place they’d ended up and certainly not the most unusual or exotic. But nonetheless, there was something dramatic about the way the ship cut through the choppy sea, plowing steadily onward.

Fitz and the Doctor had been dispatched to the ship by UNISYC. They’d happened to land the TARDIS near the London office and the Doctor had insisted on dropping by for a visit, despite how tenuous his relationship with the organization might have become. It took rather a while before enough phone calls been made far enough up the chain of command (almost all they way up, as it happened) to confirm that they were who they said they were and then to ensure that the people they were talking to had high enough security clearance to talk to them. The Doctor bore the wait patiently enough, sitting quietly and watching with a small, secret smile in the corner of his mouth every time they redialed and asked to speak to the next person in a steadily climbing list of importance that Fitz was certain should have impressed him if he actually knew anything about politics of the era.

As it was, this was long after his native time, or any that he’d developed passing familiarity with, so it was lost on him. So instead of listening in star struck wonder, he took his cue for nonchalance from the Doctor and slouched on the unexpectedly comfortable waiting bench and lit up a cigarette. He’d gone through one and half at a leisurely pace before the phone calls were complete and then finished that one and another two before the immediately necessary paperwork was in order.

In the end, it turned out that their visit was in fact quite convenient for UNISYC, so they wouldn’t be trying to shoot them this time. (That was the official position at that moment, at least.) They were given a quick mission briefing, complete with hand outs and neatly stapled information packets in their mission brief folders. “Keep the pen; it’s complimentary.”

When the bureaucracy had been satisfied, UNISYC moved with frightening speed and efficiency. The next thing Fitz knew, they were being carried out to sea in a helicopter. The helicopter dropped them off onboard the cargo ship, a few diplomatic formalities later and they being shown to their berth below deck. The Doctor had literally flipped through the folder and apparently read the whole thing with his inhumanly quick eyes, which was good because Fitz had only cracked his open to doodle in the margins of one of the sheets during the briefing. The Doctor filled Fitz in while they got settled into their cabin.

There was substantial reason to suspect that there was an extraterrestrial presence onboard the ship, specifically one or more alien stowaways. Due to various convoluted and ridiculous diplomatic technicalities, UNISYC wouldn’t or couldn’t justify sending in a force to bring in the ship and search it properly. Frankly, Fitz didn’t give a damn about the diplomatic particulars or the pussyfooting higher-ups and politicians and he was just a bit put off by being dispatched like a dog to do their dirty work.

The Doctor, however, had assured UNISYC that they’d be happy to help wherever they were needed, later confiding in Fitz later that he’d be all the happier to deal with this personally. There was a far better chance of resolving the matter without bloodshed if UNISYC and their gung-ho, guns-out-first policies were as well out of the way as they could be. The captain and the rest of the crew were very accommodating, and more than happy to have someone who came so highly recommended onboard to finally sort out the strange occurrences that had been plaguing their voyage lately. Fitz and the Doctor were both relieved that their help would be well received for once.

The voyage out across the Atlantic had been fairly routine, and they’d passed the time tracking down clues all over the ship. The Doctor had been actually skipping with excitement at one point when he spotted a particularly interesting blob of green sludge down a corridor. By afternoon on the next day, however, the weather had turned dark and stormy. The storm was a particularly bad one, according to the captain, and it had the ship rolling with the waves crashing up almost over the deck.

In the steadily darkening gray of that afternoon, the Doctor walked along the length of the ship as if it were the promenade of a luxury liner in gentle summer, seemingly oblivious to both the weather and the disconcerting roll of the ship that sometimes made it hard for Fitz to stay standing. The men farther down the deck struggled with their tasks in the cold and frequent spray of the waves, but he was never so much as splashed. Everyone else had bundled up in heavy rain slickers, but the Doctor still wore nothing over the soft velvet of his bottle green frock coat. Even the gusting wind barely seemed to ruffle his clothes and hair.

Fitz watched from the shelter of the wheelhouse the windows of which afforded him a commanding view of the deck and the churning gray sea spread out ahead. The captain and a few other crewmen were manning the wheel and navigational equipment, guiding the ship through the storm with a confidence that spoke of years of experience. Fitz didn’t doubt for a moment that the crew was more than equal to navigating through any obstacle the Atlantic could throw at them. Mother Nature unfortunately didn’t seem to care much for Fitz’s opinion.

The storm had had raged full force for more than an hour when things finally reached the breaking point, literally. A particularly large wave bore the ship high and the deep trough behind dropped it sharply back down, pitching the deck violently to one side. Something went bang —clank, nearby amongst the crates where they were stacked on deck nearly as high as the wheelhouse itself. There was always a moment of eerie silence where everything in creation seemed to hold its breath for a moment, just before things went catastrophically wrong. That moment passed and the ship rolled again with the next wave. In slow motion, one of the crates started to slide before Fitz’s horrified stare, tugging the loosening, snapped end of the broken chain with it. Worse, not just one crate was moving, but also the several beneath it were shifting, slipping out of the side, like a collapsing canyon wall.

Fits realized with horror that the Doctor had made his way around to that side of the ship and strolled directly in the path of the falling crates and Fitz yelled for him to look out. The Doctor didn’t hear the snap over the storm; no one except those in the wheelhouse were close enough. They all heard Fitz’s yell, though, cutting above the sound of the wind and waves. The Doctor looked up towards the sound of Fitz’s voice, and in doing so spotted the crates tumbling down from high above him. Not even the Doctor’s inhuman advantages of speed and agility could get him clear in time. There was no way he could cover the distance fast enough.

He dived out of the way of the first crate and it slammed down behind him, crumbling the guardrail like paper when one corner impacted against it. The Doctor scrabbled up from where he’d landed as the deck tilted again, causing the crate to start sliding towards him. Backing away from it, away from the wall of corrugated steel pushing towards him, he didn’t have time to get out of the way of the next crate. The second crate slammed down close on his right, too close. The Doctor managed to avoid being crushed underneath, but an unforgiving steel edge clipped him. Fitz couldn’t see exactly where from so far away but he could see the Doctor reel back unsteadily, clearly hurt.

The crate that hit him slid slowly away with the tilt of the deck, but the Doctor was trapped, blocked in on both sides. He looked up and saw the rest of the crates were headed right for him and knew he no longer had anywhere to run. Fitz imagined that he could see the flash of desperate, instinctive reasoning flit across the Doctor’s face, though he knew he couldn’t see anything properly form where he was, but he knew the Doctor well enough.

Thinking fast, as he always did, he took the only escape route available to him. The Doctor jumped backwards, turning in the air, clearing the guardrail at the edge of the deck walkway and moving fluidly into a perfect, graceful dive. He disappeared over the side, narrowly avoiding being crushed by the crates as they slammed down exactly where he’d been an instant before.

Fitz grabbed the alarm bell next the door and rang it furiously. “Man overboard!” he yelled again and again.

Half the men on deck were able to see or at least glimpse what happened and were already moving to peer over the side and into the sea. Those on the opposite side of the deck sprang into action at his call, racing towards the scene. The Captain emerged from the wheelhouse, yelling orders to a few men to re-secure the crates. Blessedly they seem to have settled for the moment. One crate had landed right on the edge of the deck, one corner hanging out over the edge to be licked by the waves.

The Captain was ordering the helm to cut speed and bring them as near to a stop as they could manage in the weather. The crew was yelling, shouting orders, and answers, but Fitz didn’t hear them. He was focused only on getting to the Doctor. Fitz rushed down from the wheelhouse and over to the edge where the Doctor fell over. The ship was still rolling and it was difficult.

The crew was admirably efficient and the stacked crates were secured again by the time he managed to stumble down to the deck. Fitz was no sailor and knew that he would never find his sea legs, no matter what the Doctor said. A couple more men were getting the chains and straps around the fallen crates. They were too heavy to move without the equipment from the dock, but they could ensure they didn’t move anymore, hopefully.

Fitz made it down to the side, probably remarkably quickly, given the slippery deck and his own lack of sea-worthy equilibrium. It felt like ages to him though, fighting his way down there. Fitz pushed through the men to where three were standing at the edge. Another man ran over from across the deck, carrying a life preserver tied to a long rope. Fitz scaned the sea bellow them and spotted something bobby in the water a ways behind the vessel. The boat had nearly been stopped, but it had still gone several hundred yards passed where the Doctor had fallen into the sea.

One of the crewmen shed his coat, jacket and boots, grabbed the life ring and clambered over the railing. He took a moment to steel himself before jumping over the side. It was not as graceful as the Doctor’s elegant dive, but he found his way down, landing with a large splash of frigid water, swiftly erased by the churning waves. He wrapped the rope around one of his shoulders so that the ring could float a few feet behind him, out of the way. Then the rescuer began a strong breaststroke through the salt water, aiming determinedly for the Doctor, so far away.

The Doctor was slipping steadily lower and lower in the water. At first he had appeared to be staying afloat well, despite the waves and his coat weighing him down. More and more though, he seemed to be tiring. His movements seemed slower and incomplete, as if treading water properly was too much effort.

For a few moments at a time, Fitz would begin to panic, thinking that the rescuer didn’t seem to be getting any closer to the Doctor. Then he’d force down the sensation, reminding himself that it was just an illusion of distance. Each time though, he cursed himself for never having learned to swim. It should have been him out there saving the Doctor, not someone he’d never even properly met. What was the point of traveling all over time and space with the Doctor, seeing and being a part of so many incredible things, if he couldn’t even manage something as simple as saving the man himself?

Eventually the rescuer reached the Doctor and Fitz swore mildly in relief, giving his silent thanks to whatever powers might be watching out for a shabby Human and a renegade Time Lord. By the time strong fingers closed around the Doctor’s collar, his head was barely discernible above the surface of the water and he was being pushed under by each passing wave instead of rising on their backs as he had managed before. The rescuer placed the life ring over the Doctor’s head and managed to pull his arms and shoulders through it. Before he’d jumped in, the other men on deck had taken hold of the end of the rope, and quickly took up the slack, pulling together, reeling back in the two figures afloat on the sea.

Though he had not seen it with his own eyes, the Doctor had told him once that he had swam, and doubled back across San Francisco Bay. As the Doctor himself had stood, still dripping on the Golden Gate Bridge, Fitz did no doubt it for a moment. Fitz was deeply concerned over what injuries the Doctor might have, as he was obviously in distress and unable to swim properly. Fitz often told himself, when he found himself worrying about things like this, (or whatever mess the Doctor had managed to get them into,) that if he wasn’t careful he’d end up with a head full of gray hair like a cranky old granny. Then again, someone had to look after the Doctor’s well being, as he seemed often incapable of doing so himself. The Doctor’s stillness, as he was hauled up the side of the ship by a rope tied with skillful knots around his torso, chilled Fitz in a way that had nothing to do with the sharp Atlantic breeze.

The men finally pulled the Doctor over the railing, carrying him between a few of them. They set him down on his back not far from the crates that had nearly crushed him earlier, though they were by then well secured with perhaps more chains then were actually necessary, as if to make up for the previously inadequate measures. Fitz pushed forward and knelt by his friend’s side. One of the crewmen waiting on deck apparently had some medical expertise and served as the ship medic when requited. He knelt opposite Fitz and began to check the Doctor over.

The Doctor’s face was half obscured by the wet mass of his drenched curls, which the medic hastily brushed aside to reach the pulse point at his neck. The Doctor’s eyes were closed, and there was a bluish tinge around his lips, and his whole expression worryingly slack.

The Doctor’s pulse drew a raised eyebrow from the medic, who shot an inquisitive look at Fitz. “Err… He was born with a heart deformity,” Fitz supplied awkwardly. At the man’s incredulous and still baffled look, Fitz elaborated, “Should feel like normal, but a double beat.”

The medic shook his head and replied that in that case it felt a bit weak. He then leaned in to listened to the Doctor’s breathing, placing one hand on his sternum, pausing, and then moving it quickly up to hover in front of the Doctor’s slightly parted lips.

“Not breathing!” he announced with renewed urgency. He shifted positions again, and began rescue breathing, alternating with sharp compressions to the sternum. Fitz stared helplessly at the Doctor, who lay limp under the medic’s ministrations. Fitz felt even more useless than before.

After several tense moments, the Doctor jerked, gasping with a nasty gurgle in the back of his throat, immediately followed by him turning his head and coughing up a mouthful of seawater, spitting it out. After that his breathing seemed to even out quickly and though he was still breathing heavily, bordering on panting gasps, it was strong and steady.

Fitz noticed that the Doctor’s pale blue eyes, which had flown open with his first gasp of breath, had slipped half closed again. Fitz leaned over his friend. “Doctor?” he called “Can you hear me, it’s Fitz.” He may have raised his voice a bit in anxiety, because the Doctor seemed to wince at his words. His answer sounded slightly slurred, but that might have mostly been due to his not moving his lips much as he mumbled, “-f’couse — can hear —u, ‘itz.”

A weak motion of his hand accompanied this, which would doubtless have been a very Doctor-ish gesture, but he didn’t seem to have the energy for it. Also there seemed to be something wrong with the arm he gestured with. Any further statements the doctor might have ventured to make were cut off by a soft, but distinctly pained grunt on his part, resulting apparently from his attempts to move his right shoulder.

Now that the Doctor’s life was not in immediate jeopardy, Fitz and the medic’s mutual attention was drawn to the Doctor’s other injuries. His right shoulder was at an unnatural angle, and the arm of his coat was torn away at the bicep. What remained of his white shirt was stained red, despite the seawater spreading the color and making it watery. The medic opened the Doctor’s coat and embroidered waistcoat, feeling through his soaked nearly transparent shirt. He pressed against each of the Doctor’s ribs quickly and efficiently, eliciting a few more winces from the fading man. Next he felt along the Doctor’s upper arm, probing with his fingers through the sodden layers of cloth. When he reached the tear, the doctor gave a little startled sort of gasp, and promptly passed out, his eyes rolling back in his head.

It wasn’t long before the medic finished is quick examination, but the Doctor had begun to shiver. Fitz knew the Doctor liked it a bit cooler, but the sharp Atlantic wind coupled with the spray had been enough to make even the Gallifreyan turn up his coat collar. In any case, being partially undressed and soaked through couldn’t have been good for anyone in the weather and Fitz should have hardly been surprised that the chill was settling into his friend’s bones. Yet he was and found he had to drag his gaze way from the Doctor’s trembling form, back up to the medic who was saying something about fractured bones and bruised or cracked ribs, something about shock and keeping warm. The last bit Fitz latched onto; finally, something he could do.

Fitz scooped up the Doctor carefully, cradling his limp form, so inhumanly light, despite the layers of sodden cl0thing. He carried the Doctor down below deck cursing when the Doctor’s head lolled against his arms he went down the stairs, smacking against the wall. He shifted the Doctor in his arms so that the head of brown curls rested against his shoulder and found his way into the cabin that the captain had assigned them to while they were on board. After stripping off the Doctor’s soaked clothes, taking extra care with his injuries, he tucked him into the bottom bunk. Fitz decided to forgo the top bunk that the Doctor had gleefully laid claim to earlier, opting to put him where he’d be easier to keep an eye on.

The ship medic appeared not long after with a medical kit and patched the doctor up as best he could. He popped the Doctor’s shoulder back into place and put a splint on his upper arm, secured under layers of wrapping. With some assistance form Fitz, he lifted the Doctor’s torso and wrapped bandages around his ribs to give them some support. When he’d done all he could, he told Fitz to try to keep the Doctor as warm and dry as possible to avoid shock setting in. Some part of Fitz wanted to roll his eyes at the man for that, but Fitz had always fancied himself a decent actor and was able to keep the expression off his face. Reminding himself that the man had just saved the Doctors life and attended to his injuries also helped. He managed a polite, “Thanks, mate,” before shutting the door.

Fitz slumped down onto the low, battered stool next to the door, staring at the Doctor’s wet curls, and the slowly spreading patch of wet on the pillow beneath them. He scooted the stool closer to the bunk and reached out to touch the Doctor’s shoulder, just visible above the blankets. Normally it would have been a gesture to comfort the person on the receiving end, but the Doctor was still unconscious, and Fitz knew it was really to reassure himself. He felt the Doctor shiver under his fingers.

Though it was warmer below deck, it was still quite cool, and an almost imperceptible trembling ran constantly through the Doctor’s body. Fitz stood and pulled the blankets off the top bunk. He laid them over the ones already covering the Doctor and pulled the lot up all the way, snug under the shivering man’s chin. Then he sat back down again and watched the Doctor some more, marveling at how he had come to be where he was. He was the companion of a time-traveling alien, for Christ’s sake! He’d come from working in a garden shop in England, to flitting about the universe, and with the Doctor at that.

Fitz had never met anyone like him before, and he knew with a kind of impenetrable certainty that he never would again either. Time Lords were rather extraordinary, but the Doctor was unique even among them. Of all the things he was, Fitz knew that he was wonderful, and sometimes it struck him how very lucky he was to travel with him.

Fitz was relieved to see the trembling finally stop as the extra blankets finally warmed the Doctor’s body. With no one else to look after the eccentric and often reckless man, Fitz knew it fell to him to look after him. To insure he’d still be available to rescue whatever part or whole of the Universe next needed saving. Truly the man was like a force of nature unto himself, and frankly, Fitz couldn’t imagine the universe going on without him. Yet there he lay, and Fitz was reminded that the Doctor was only mortal, (well mostly), and the proof of it was right in front of him. Not for the first time, and he knew not for the last, the Doctor lay vulnerable.

The Doctor stirred and his eyes fluttered open. His pale gaze flickered around his surroundings for a few moments before settling on Fitz, who replaced his hand on the Doctor’s shoulder, although this time it was to press him gently back onto the bed when he immediately tried to sit up. The Doctor winced with the effort before relaxing back onto the mattress.

\--------------------------------------------------

Much later (although not as much as the worrying part of Fitz would have liked), when the Doctor had unwound the bandages from his around his ribs and redressed himself in his dried clothes, they were back to running for their lives. This was in fact something of an achievement as, though the ship was large, like most earthly vessels it contained only a finite amount of space in which to run. This didn’t stop them of course. They managed to do quite a bit of running helter-skelter and seemed to visit every nook and cranny of the ship while they were at it, almost as though the Doctor didn’t want to waste any of it. In fact, even from his sickbed the Doctor had managed to discover a multitude of important facts, using them to come to a variety of uniquely unorthodox conclusions, and to somehow incur the displeasure of a particularly revolting stowaway. Fitz honestly expected no less from the man normally, but even he had been incredulous at what the Doctor could manage with his right arm in a sling. By the end of the week, he had no doubt they’d have thwarted another alien plot to dominate earth or whatever, and it was already Thursday…

\--------------------------------------------------

Sunday evening, as they spent a rare moment relaxing in the TARDIS garden, the Doctor reflected out of the blue that he was quite certain he’d nearly drowned on at least one previous occasion. Oddly, though, he had the distinct impression that he’d been blond and traveling with an extremely brash Australian woman at the time.


End file.
